I was six. I d been outside playing with my best friend, Maureen, and I came in because I needed the toilet A crease appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. The water was so red; and my rubber duck was bright, bright yellow; and her skin was enamel white, like the bathtub; and I sat on the lid of the toilet and held her hand till she was gone
Outside the car, the wind howled.
I reached across the car and held Dr McDonald s hand. Greasy with chip fat, and a little sticky from the Irn-Bru.
She sniffed, eyes glittering in the dashboard lights.
My phone rang again, tearing the silence into jagged shards.
Sodding hell I pulled it out: Rhona.
You OK, Guv? Smith the Prick s storming about like someone put Tabasco on his buttplug. Word is: you called him a sheep shagger.
Not a good time, Rhona, so
Had to wait till shift-change to do your PNC searches. Your journalist, Talbert, got bottled in a bar fight two years ago, bled out before the ambulance arrived. Harriet Woods s private investigator licence was suspended five years ago, she moved to Dubai and got a job with a private security firm. No idea where she is now. Danny Crawford went missing from Aberdeen eighteen months ago. Ahmed Moghadam is in a secure psychiatric ward in Dundee. And Emilia Schneider s doing eight years in Peterhead for the illegal imprisonment and torture of two Jehovah s Witnesses.
What happened to Danny Crawford?
No idea The sound of two-fingered typing.
Erm OK: reported missing by his mother; he d been off his medication for a fortnight; threatened his parole officer with a kitchen knife; and that s it. No sightings since he got on the train for Inverness a year and a half ago.
So Steven Wallace was still the best bet.
Guv?
Blink. Thanks, Rhona.
Are you going to be wanting that bed tonight? You know, after the service: I ve still got all your washing?
A bed for tonight.
Hang on a second. I pressed the mute button. Turned to Dr McDonald. Your aunt: she s coming back today, isn t she? You won t be on your own?
A nod.
I took the phone off mute. Sounds good, Rhona. I smiled at my reflection in the driver s window. See you at the church?
Cool.
I hung up. Let the smile slide off my face.
Dr McDonald ate her fish and chips in silence as the rain battered down. She finished, sooked her fingers, wiped them on a napkin, then stuffed the empty box back in the bag with mine. That was great, thanks, I mean the fish must be really fresh, good peas too, and is it OK if I borrow your phone for a minute, I need to check what time Aunty Jan s getting back from Glasgow and mine s got no battery left?
I handed it over. Give me the rubbish.
She passed me the plastic bag.
I lurched out into the rain. There was a bin next to the pay-and-display machine. I ditched the remnants inside, turned up my collar, and sploshed across the car park to Shand Street with its quaint collection of Victorian teashops, tourist tat, and high-street brands. Two doors down, past Boots and Poundgasm, was a wee off-licence.
I nipped in for a litre of gin, some tonic, two bottles of red wine, and two of white as well. Paid with cash, then headed back to the car, the booze clinking in purple plastic bags.
The other car had stopped rocking. Cigarette smoke curled out of the driver s window.
I dodged the puddles and clambered back in behind the wheel of the Renault. Stuck the bags in behind the seats. Then pulled out one of the whites and held it out to Dr McDonald. Here.
She smiled at me. You didn t have to do that, but thanks. Then gave me back my phone. Aunty Jan s already home, so that s great, except I m going to have to explain why the back door s all scratched. She cuddled the wine. Do you think Twiddled with her hair. Do you think it was him?
Put your seatbelt on. I eased the ancient Renault out of the potholed car park. Sheila was right: probably just a junky. Fletcher Road s a prime target there isn t a house on that whole street that s worth less than a million and a half. And your aunt s got the dogs, right?
Who needs Dobermann pinschers when you ve got a Staffordshire bull terrier and a wheezy Jack Russell. She hugged the bottle tighter. I ll be fine
The priest s voice crackled out of speakers bolted to the granite walls: Let us pray. He held up his hands and the people around me bowed their heads.
St Jasper s was packed, the pews overflowing, people standing in the aisles and at the back, desperate to be part of the public grieving. The church ceiling curved high overhead, grey and ribbed, like being inside a fossilized whale. Spotlights made the stained glass glow in grimy shades of red, blue, and yellow. A miserable bloody place full of fucking ghouls.
Dear Lord, hear our prayer for Megan Taylor and Katie Henderson
Michelle reached over and squeezed my hand, chin on her chest, eyes screwed tight shut as if God wouldn t let us have our daughter back if He caught her peeking.
I stared straight ahead.
